Easter Bunny Murder (9 page)

“That was the least of it,” said Jim, who was always eager to let everyone know he had plenty of money to spend and didn't mind spending it. “She had to have a grandmother ring, too.”

Jolene blushed and held up her hand, waggling her finger. “No pressure, kids, but there's room for plenty more stones on this ring. Right now there's just this lonely little emerald.”

Molly and Toby exchanged glances; they tolerated Jolene's meddling but didn't enjoy it.

Lucy was about to get a fresh beer for Bill, who had gone from a slow simmer to something close to a full boil, when Jim leaned back in his chair. “You know, Bill,” he said, “a lot of folks our age don't want to spend money on themselves—they don't indulge themselves like we did with that weekend in Boston—because they want to leave a nice estate for their kids. But I tell Jolene here not to worry, you can have both. The way you do it, Bill, is with life insurance.”

“Uh, Jim, I think I'm pretty well set in that department,” said Bill, hoping to forestall the sales pitch he suspected was coming.

“I'm not saying you aren't. I'm sure you have adequate coverage, but the truth is you can never have too much. Take me, for example. When I go—and let's face it, Bill, statistics show that it's us men who pop off first—Jolene here will be a rich woman.”

Jolene covered her husband's hand with her own. “You know nothing will replace you, Jim. I'd rather have you than any amount of money.”

“Dad, I wish you wouldn't talk about these things,” said Molly, who had taken Patrick out of the high chair and had set him on her knee. “We want you around for a very long time. We want to see you at Patrick's wedding.”

Lucy was keeping an eye on Bill, who was using his knife to shove a few remnants of salad around on his plate. “I understand Lucy's made a special Easter dessert,” he said.

“That's right.” Lucy was on her feet, picking up Jim's and Jolene's plates.

“That was delicious, Lucy,” said Jim. “But just let me say this, Bill. With life insurance, you can create an instant estate for your loved ones; you can die a millionaire.”

“That's fine,” said Bill, pulling a lottery ticket out of his pocket and displaying it. “But when it comes to gambling, I'd prefer a bet I don't have to die to win.”

“Coffee?” said Lucy. “Who'd like coffee?”

Later, when the guests had left and Lucy was loading the dishwasher, she thought about what Jim had said. Bill had a modest life insurance policy, enough to cover the mortgage, but that was about it. With so many other demands on their finances, a big life insurance policy hadn't seemed like a top priority. Lucy was confident in her ability to support herself if something happened to Bill, and, as for leaving a big estate for the kids, well, it seemed to her that it would be better for them to depend on themselves. She and Bill had never inherited very much; she'd gotten some money when her parents died, but it was little more than a nice nest egg, a cushion she kept for emergencies.

As she scraped the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, her eyes fell on the Peter Rabbit plate she'd been so proud of. Well, maybe Jolene had trumped her on that one, but she wasn't going to let it bother her. She was willing to bet she'd gotten more pleasure out of finding that plate and buying it for a dollar than Jolene got out of her expensive Tiffany's purchase. The hunt and the excitement of finding a bargain always gave her a bit of a high.

She shut the door and switched the machine on, listening to it hum. No matter how you looked at it, whether you had too little or too much, money was a problem. Look at VV, she thought. She had all that money, maybe even hundreds of millions of dollars, and it wasn't bringing her—or her family—much happiness.

Little Viv, who was in her sixties, was apparently still dependent on her mother. Lucy wiped the counter down, wondering how much that “modest allowance” Peter Reilly had told her about actually was. Whatever the amount, it seemed more than ample for Little Viv's needs. But what about Vicky? She was in her forties, brought up in an atmosphere of wealth and privilege. But if VV was holding tight to her money, and if Vicky's husband wasn't wealthy in his own right, well then Vicky might well be up against it financially. It would be only natural to feel that she was entitled to some of VV's fortune. Indeed, she might be getting impatient, aware that she wasn't getting any younger.

What did Maxine call Vicky, her husband, and the lawyer? The Three Pigs? Lucy wondered if she was on to something, or if she was just the pot calling the kettle black. How much was Maxine due to inherit, she wondered, now that Van was dead?

Lucy rinsed out the sponge and put it in its place; the kitchen was tidy and ready for tomorrow morning. The coffeepot was filled and ready to go, the timer was set, and Bill would find a fresh pot waiting for him when he came downstairs in the morning; his lunch pail was packed with two hearty sandwiches, chips, and an apple. The girls' lunches were made, their field hockey uniforms were washed and ready for them. She was a good manager and prided herself on maintaining an orderly, happy home; she doubted that things were quite so well managed up at Pine Point.

Chapter Nine

O
ver the past few years, a handful of crocuses Lucy had planted near the porch steps had spread into a good-size patch, even popping up here and there on the lawn. Lucy admired them when she left the house on Monday morning, struck as she was every year by the fragile flowers' stubborn persistence, returning and thriving after months of brutal cold. Nothing seemed to faze them, not even the inevitable spring snowstorm that would drop a couple of inches of wet, heavy snow. They would just close their petals tight and wait for a sunny morning.

This morning was sunny, and the crocuses had opened to reveal their bright orange pollen-covered stamens and the honeybees were buzzing from bloom to bloom. Lucy could hear them, a sure sign of spring, as they went from flower to flower, their knees orange with gathered pollen.

It was reassuring, she thought as she drove to work, that this rite of spring continued uninterrupted in spite of natural disasters and climate change. The winters did seem to be getting colder due to something they called the refrigerator effect, but the summers were warmer and that wasn't such a bad thing in Maine. Lucy was looking forward to planting her garden, perhaps adding a few more tomatoes and other heat-loving plants, like peppers and eggplants.

Maybe Bill would rototill the garden for her tonight, she thought, pulling into her usual parking space behind the
Pennysaver
office. It stayed lighter longer now, and he might be able to turn over a bed or two before dinner.

She was wondering if she'd bought enough peas—were two packets enough or should she pick up a couple more?—when Phyllis greeted her with unusual exuberance.

“It's about time you got here!” she exclaimed.

Lucy was puzzled. “It's my usual time,” she said, pointing to the clock on the wall. “I never get in much before nine on Mondays.”

Phyllis could hardly contain herself. She had crossed her arms across her ample chest as if she had to hold herself in, and her eyes were bright as she peered over her multicolored half-glasses. “I know, I know, it's just that I've got big news.”

“Okay, shoot,” said Lucy, slipping off her jacket and hanging it on the coat rack.

“Elfrida called . . . ,” she began.

“And . . . ?”

The words came out in a small explosion, like popcorn in the microwave. “Willis has been fired!”

Lucy whirled around, incredulous. “No!”

“Yes,” she insisted, with a sharp nod that made her double chin quiver.

“But he's been there for years and years.”

“Elfrida says he started there soon after Horatio died, so he's been the butler at Pine Point for something like forty years.”

“VV really depends on him,” said Lucy thoughtfully. “Who fired him?”

“Vicky. She's moved in, along with her husband, and they're taking charge. Elfrida says the nurses are threatening to leave; everything's crazy without Willis. Vicky and Henry are poking their noses in everywhere, giving orders right and left. Henry chewed her out because she made some chicken soup for VV. He says she's not to have anything except that canned nutrition stuff. Elfrida says she tasted it and it's absolutely disgusting. She can't see why the poor old thing can't have a little chicken broth, or some applesauce, things that have a little taste to them, but he says absolutely not. Meanwhile, he and Vicky are demanding four-course dinners, roast beef and leg of lamb . . .”

“Lamb? I saw a couple of lamb roasts at the IGA, and they were around forty dollars.”

“I guess the money they're saving on Willis's salary buys a lot of groceries.”

“What about Elfrida? Can she handle all this cooking?”

Phyllis shook her head. “She's got cookbooks and she calls me and asks for advice. It's one of those situations; she figures she's going to get fired and she'd like to quit, but she doesn't want to abandon VV. At this point, there's just her and the gardener girl there, and the nurses.” Phyllis lowered her voice. “Elfrida thinks there's some immigration issue with them so they get them cheap.”

Lucy was thoughtful as she sat down at her desk and booted up her computer. If Elfrida's report was true, and Lucy thought it must be, Vicky and Henry had also fired Tracy, the cleaner, and Izzy's helper, too. It seemed odd to her that the couple would choose this particular time to get rid of staff at Pine Point. In Lucy's experience, even families with very modest means called in extra help when they had an invalid to care for. She remembered when Marge Culpepper had her bout with breast cancer and had such a difficult time with chemotherapy. She'd told Lucy she had a hard time keeping track of the home health-care people and the visiting nurses and the friends who dropped by; she said she'd never been so busy. She'd even joked that being sick was a full-time job.

Of course, thought Lucy, the situation might be somewhat different if Vicky and Henry were up to no good, as Maxine had alleged. In that case, they would most certainly want to get rid of the faithful family retainers. They'd also want to get rid of any extra witnesses who might notice something out of order. She supposed they'd love to get rid of the nurses, too, if only they could. The next best thing would be to terrorize them, which wouldn't be difficult if their immigration status was in doubt.

Lucy stared at the screen, studying the list of stories she was working on: the selectmen's meeting, the finance committee's recommendations for the annual budget to be voted at the town meeting, the calendar of events, spring planting advice from master gardener Rebecca Wardwell. They all seemed trivial in contrast to the Gothic horror story she suspected was taking place at Pine Point.

“Hey, Phyllis, do you think I could interview Elfrida?”

Phyllis was suspicious. “For a story, you mean?”

“Just background, deep background. I wouldn't even have to mention her name.”

“I'm pretty sure they'd fire her if they caught her talking to the press—she had to hang up real fast last time she called me.” Phyllis's eyes widened. “She says she doesn't know how she does it, but Vicky seems to be everywhere all at once, like she's got eyes in the back of her head or ESP or something.”

For the first time ever, Lucy found herself feeling sympathetic toward Elfrida. She was a free spirit, she didn't do anyone any harm. She must be wondering how she got herself into this horrible situation. Thinking of horrible situations, Lucy remembered the paperwork Willis had made her sign when she worked at Pine Point. Digging in her roomy purse, she dug out the wrinkled sheets of paper and found, scrawled on the bottom, Willis's cell phone number. “Just in case you need to reach me,” he'd said. Lucy dialed the number.

When he answered, Lucy spoke quickly, fearful he'd refuse to speak with her. But Willis was too polite, too well trained, she realized, to hang up on a caller, even one from the media.

“I was sorry to hear you've been let go,” she said, oozing sympathy. “And after all these years.”

Willis, it turned out, was human. “Almost forty years, can you believe it?”

“No, I can't,” said Lucy. “Did they give you a reason?”

“I can only assume I did not give satisfaction,” said Willis in his stilted butler-speak.

“I very much doubt that—I've seen you in action. You're an excellent manager.”

“Well, thank you for your concern,” he said. “If you hear of any openings, I'd appreciate it if you'd keep me in mind.”

Lucy couldn't help chuckling; she was hardly in a position to know anyone who required a butler. “I certainly will,” she said, as her mind took a different path. “What about legal redress? Are you considering anything like that?”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” he replied in a clipped tone.

Lucy was thinking out loud. “Well, Bob Goodman was VV's attorney, until last summer. Vicky and Henry fired him, too. Perhaps you should call him, see if you can sue for lost wages, damaged reputation, age discrimination, even anxiety and health issues. I'm sure he can come up with something.”

Willis's tone of voice changed. “I'm sorry, but I have to go—someone's at the door.”

Lucy was pretty sure she'd touched a nerve. “Well, good luck. I know you'll find something.”

“Thank you,” he said, ending the call.

Lucy sat at her desk, staring at the computer screen. Willis was no dummy, she thought, reflecting on her recent experience at Pine Point. He was a thorough-going professional who managed to keep that huge house running on a miniscule staff and sharply reduced budget. He had also worked for VV for a very long time, decades, and it seemed more than likely that the two had developed a congenial relationship in that time. Maybe even something a bit warmer, thought Lucy. Willis might well have come to see himself as his aging and increasingly frail employer's protector. She would be amazed, she decided, if he hadn't put in a call to Bob Goodman the moment he learned he was being axed.

She stood up, picked up her bag, and grabbed her jacket off the coat rack. “I'll be back soon,” she told Phyllis.

“I know that look,” said Phyllis with a satisfied smile. “It's your newshound look.”

Lucy was zipping up her jacket. “Do me a favor and stay in touch with Elfrida.”

“I will. The poor thing needs a sympathetic ear.”

With a little wave, Lucy hurried out of the office and hopped into her car. Ted hadn't authorized this little expedition and she knew she'd better make it fast; she didn't have time to walk over to Miss Tilley's little antique Cape-style house with its weathered-gray cedar shingles and white corner boards.

Rachel answered the door, holding a couple of plates and some silverware. “Hi, Lucy. Can you stay for lunch? I was just about to set the table.”

Lucy inhaled the enticing scent of roast chicken and sighed. “No, I can't stay, but it sure smells great.”

“Oh, well, another time.” Rachel tilted her head toward the living room. “Her ladyship is in her usual place.”

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you,” said Lucy. “Have you got a minute?”

“Sure.” Rachel led the way into the living room where Miss Tilley was in her usual spot, a Boston rocker in front of the fireplace where a bright little blaze kept the room toasty warm. Lucy gave her a hug and a kiss and took a seat on the sofa, while Rachel perched on a wing chair. Cleopatra, the Siamese cat, was sunning herself in the window.

“What brings you here?” asked Miss Tilley. “Somehow I don't think you came to chat about the spring flowers.”

“Actually, my crocuses are spreading like crazy. I've got quite a display,” said Lucy. “But the daffodils seem to be disappearing.”

“Odd,” said Miss Tilley, preening a bit. “My daffodils are bigger and better than ever. They're filling in that entire corner by the apple tree.”

“They say to plant day lilies and daffs together but I find the day lilies push out the daffs,” offered Rachel. She dropped her voice and added, “Day lilies can be garden thugs, very aggressive.”

“Speaking of thugs, that's why I'm here,” Lucy said. “I heard that Vicky and Henry fired Willis.”

“So Rachel tells me,” said Miss Tilley.

Rachel nodded, her eyes very large. “This is off the record, Lucy, but he was at the house most of the weekend with Bob. I don't know exactly what was going on, but there was a steady stream of people from Pine Point—the gardener, Elfrida, and several others I didn't know.”

“At the house? Why not the office?”

“I think it was sort of secret and the house is a lot more private; the office is right on Main Street.” Her voice rose, a trifle indignant. “He had me making pots and pots of coffee and tea and even sandwiches for these folks, but when I asked him what it was all about, he just said, ‘All in good time.' He didn't even come to bed until very late, after I was asleep, and that's very unlike him. And when I went downstairs in the morning, I saw the lights were still burning in his office, as if he'd worked so late he was too tired to remember to turn them off. That was Sunday morning and I thought I'd let him sleep in a bit because he'd been up so late, but these two men showed up and insisted they had an appointment with him. He got right up, threw some clothes on, and disappeared into his office again.”

“What were the men like?” asked Lucy, thinking this seemed like something from a Dickens novel.

“A very odd couple,” reported Rachel. “One was tall and quite distinguished, white hair, wearing a sports coat and tie, and the other was shorter and he was dressed, well, he looked like he'd gotten his clothes in a thrift shop or something. They were worn and faded and didn't fit all that well.”

“No names?” asked Lucy, thinking these descriptions would fit Little Viv's ex-husbands, Andrew Duff and Peter Reilly.

“No names, but they were there for a very long time.”

“It sounds to me like the troops are rallying around VV,” said Lucy.

“Or against Vicky and her husband,” said Miss Tilley.

“Isn't it the same thing?” asked Lucy.

“Not at all,” insisted Miss Tilley. “The question is, are they really trying to protect VV or do they just want to preserve their place at the trough, if you'll forgive my French.”

“Maxine calls Vicky and Henry and their lawyer, Weatherby, the Three Pigs,” said Lucy.

“They're all feeding off VV, whether they work for her or if they're hoping to inherit, she's got the money and they want it,” said Miss Tilley. “They're all looking for what they think is their fair share.”